


Vatican Cameos

by stevie23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevie23/pseuds/stevie23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By the time John realises that Jim Moriarty is complete and raving lunatic, it’s slightly too late.<br/>Of course, by slightly too late, John means that he doesn’t realise Moriarty is an utter psychopath until Moriarty has him tied to a chair in the Room of Requirement with a gun pointed at his head, and where the fuck did he get a gun? John didn’t thing the room worked like that, although he supposes there is always the possibility that its purpose is to provide insane people with deadly weapons.</p>
<p>Johnlock at Hogwarts!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vatican Cameos

**Author's Note:**

> For Naomi, who introduced me to Sherlock. I owe her one.

John flushes as he limps across the stage, cane in hand as it has been ever since the accident. Realistically, John knows that it’s unlikely that everyone is laughing at him or talking about him, but he still doesn’t want to run the risk of checking and being right, so he keeps his eyes on the seat in front of him.

His therapist says that the paranoia is natural, a side effect to be expected after witnessing what he has, and experiencing it too. John isn’t so sure, but then again, he isn’t sure about much his therapist said, including that he has a mild case of PTSD, so it doesn’t really matter what he thinks.

Finally, after what feels like years, but is only a few seconds in actuality, John reaches the wooden stool. He sits down, relieved to have taken the weight off of his leg and hesitantly accepts the old, battered hat the Deputy Headmistress hands him. As he places it on his head, John shifts unsurely, not entirely certain of what to expect.

“Interesting...” A voice whispers to John, and he flinches before realising it is the hat and relaxing slightly. _This is so weird,_ he thinks to himself as the hat carries on speaking. “Intelligent... you’d do well in Ravenclaw,” John’s gaze flicks over to the table decked out in blue and bronze and he swallows slightly nervously, because everyone at that table looks far, far cleverer then him. “Loyal too... Hufflepuff would welcome you, But bravery... you have more than your fair share of bravery... better be GRYFFINDOR!” The last word is shouted to the entire Great Hall and John breaths out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to the scarlet and gold table amid cheers and shouts, before lowering himself onto the bench.

He doesn’t notice the blue eyes that track his movements from the Ravenclaw table as he does so.

~

Sherlock is bored.

It’s only the first day back, still the Welcoming Feast for Merlin’s sake, and he can already tell this year is going to be tedious. One would think that in a school this size there would be _something_ interesting to deduce, but no. In the 30 minutes since they’ve left the train, Sherlock has already worked out who slept with whom in the last 2 months, and correctly guessed which house each first year would be sorted into.

Ordinarily, in this situation, Sherlock would be mocking Mycroft about his diet, but his _darling_ older brother is Head Boy this year, and mummy is just _so_ proud of him, and Sherlock knows that Mycroft won’t hesitate to write home to her and snitch on him, and laugh when mummy berates Sherlock for upsetting her oldest son.

A hush falls over the hall as the doors to the large room open. The youngest Holmes pays no mind to this and continues to stare down at the table, rolling his wand between his hands. It‘s when the muttering starts that Sherlock looks up, and a smile flits across his face as he takes in the boy who has just entered.

Sherlock guesses they are the same age, although the boy is possibly older. He walks with a limp, due to a hip injury, most likely a permanent one, if the use of a cane instead of a crutch is any indication. He favours his left leg, although the limp is probably a psychosomatic one, judging by the fact that it hasn’t been magically healed, although there is always the possibility that the new boy is a muggleborn whose letter has never reached him (unlikely, but it has happened once or twice) and doesn’t realise the lengths magical healing can go to.

Sherlock has just started deducing which house he thinks the boy will be sorted into when he hears Anderson speaking. “He’s walking with a staff. A staff! It’s 2012, did he not get the memo that staffs haven’t been used in hundreds of years?” The group of people around Anderson snigger, and Sherlock, not for the first time, doubts the Sorting Hat’s choice in placing them in Ravenclaw.

Raising his voice to ensure those he was speaking to will hear, as well as a good number of other people, Sherlock drawls, “Honestly Anderson, you do such a brilliant impression of an idiot that I wonder why you’re even in this house.” Anderson splutters, but Sherlock just rolls his eyes and carries on, “First of all, it’s a cane, Anderson, not a staff, and any self respecting Ravenclaw ought to be able to tell the difference between two objects which have limited similarities. Secondly, in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s limping and leaning on the cane. What does that tell you? That the person you’re currently mocking has suffered a severe injury that can’t be magically cured, and needs support walking. Do your research before trying to mock people.”

Anderson flushes red, and turns away, leaving his friends glaring at Sherlock. Across the table from Sherlock, Lestrade, one of Sherlock’s year mates raises his eyebrow, and holds up a piece of parchment, _Which house?_ Scrawled across it in messy handwriting. Sherlock has just mouthed ‘Gryffindor’ when the hat announces the same. Lestrade grins at him, and Sherlock smirks before turning and following the new boy’s steps to the Gryffindor table with his eyes.

Maybe Sherlock’s sixth year won’t be so boring after all.

*****

John isn’t sure how his first day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry could possibly have started any worse. He had overslept, because he had taken the muggle sleeping tablets he uses to keep the nightmares at bay later than he usually did, and so woke up later than usual. He then couldn’t find his tie (it was at the bottom of his trunk, under his laptop) or his left shoe (in the bathroom, although John wasn’t sure exactly _how_ it had ended up there.) Those three thins combined meant that he didn’t have time for breakfast, and so when John limps down the last couple of steps into the dungeons, he’s tired, in pain and hungry.

He’s just raised his hand to knock on the door to the Potion’s Classroom when it swings open with a bang. Every head in the class turns to look at where he stands in the doorway, except for the student closest to him, and John hesitantly takes a step into the room.

The teacher at the front of the room has greasy black hair, a hook nose, obsidian eyes and a long black robe. John rather thinks he looks like a bat. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and silky, but with a bit of an edge to it. “Good morning, Mr- “

“Erm, Watson, Sir. John Watson,” John says hurriedly, not liking the look on the teachers face. _Professor Snape,_ John remembers suddenly, _Head of Slytherin house._

“Well, Mr Watson. It’s nice of you to join us. You have a reason for being late, I trust?” The expression on Snape’s face suggests that no excuse would be reason enough to be late to one of his lessons, and John begins to feel slightly nauseous.

“I... errmmm... well, that’s to say...” he trails off, and takes a deep breath before rushing to finish the end of his sentence, “There were more stairs than I expected, sir,”

“I see. Did you not think, seeing as this school is a castle, that there would be quite a few steps?” John has just opened his mouth to defend himself when Snape carries on, “Never mind, It appears that all Gryffindors are as imbecilic as they seem. Sit down, and make it quick.”

With that, the Professor turns back to the board and continues writing up the ingredients needed for the lesson’s potion. John walks quickly to the desk nearest to the door, and sits down, next to a boy in Ravenclaw uniform. When he looks up as John takes his seat, John gasps quietly to himself at the colour of his eyes; they’re the bluest colour John has ever seen. The stranger’s mouth quirks up in a grin at John’s inhalation and – quelle fucking surprise – John blushes.

“Well don’t just sit there gawking,” says the boy. “Get your stuff out. I’m Sherlock by the way. Sherlock Holmes.”

John quickly does as Sherlock suggested, taking parchment, a quill and some ink out of his bag before introducing himself. “I’m John. John-“

“Watson. Yes I heard when you were attempting to justify your tardiness to old Hook Nose.” Sherlock smiles slightly when John starts spluttering about his reasons being true (if not justifications) and pushes his chair back before standing and brushing down his uniform. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m entirely sure they’re not falsified in any way. You trying to placate Snape _was_ funny though. He doesn’t like Gryffindors, or hadn’t you guessed? No, don’t stand up. I’ll get the ingredients. After all, you’re injured,” Sherlock winks, and heads over towards the store cupboard.

John mutters “Damn my leg,” and watches him go with a bemused smile on his face, unable to shake the feeling that Sherlock was going to be very interesting to work with.

*****

Close to two months later, they’re sitting in the library when Sherlock brings up John’s limp, and the events surrounding it.

“You know,” He says, tilting back on two chair legs, “You’ve never told me what happened, why you have the cane.”

“No. No I haven’t.“ John doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading as he replies. “But that’s because you don’t need me to tell you. You’ve already worked it out, from ridiculous things like the way I hold my spoon – which, by the way, I’m not sure how you can see from the Ravenclaw table – and how often I blink. I refuse to make your ego any larger or add to the general air of arrogance you currently have.”

The thing is, though, that John makes Sherlock’s ego bigger just by continuing to hang around with him. John continues to be amazed by Sherlock, and what Sherlock’s brilliant, _brilliant_ mind can do, so much so that he worries it comes across a little bit like fan worship, but every time he decides to  step back a bit and make some friends in his own house Sherlock will make an offhand deduction about Anderson or a random fourth year and without meaning to, John will say “You’re brilliant,” or “That’s amazing,” and Sherlock gets a light dusting of pink along his marvellous cheekbones and John realises he couldn’t stop being friends with Sherlock, even if he wanted to.

Sherlock scoffs at John, and returns the chair to four legs with a bang. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, tapping his wand against the palm of his left hand. “John,” He says, making eye contact with the aforementioned and holding it, “First and foremost, I do not make deductions using frivolous details such as _the way you hold your spoon_ or _how many times you blink._ That would be ridiculous. Yes, from the information I have gathered, by _observing_ you, I am relatively certain that I have been able to gain an accurate representation of the events which led to you gaining your injury. However, I would like to hear it from your point of view.”

“How about this,” John says, giving his DADA homework up as a lost cause and shutting the book, “You tell me what you think happened, and I will tell you what actually happened. **If** you tell me I’m your friend.” John had no qualms making a deal like this; the way he saw it, the likelihood of Sherlock admitting he had something as normal as a friend was close to zero. Sherlock, of course, loved to prove John wrong.

“John Hamish Watson. You are my friend. My only friend. And you were very mistaken to think I wouldn’t call your bluff.”

John groans and rubs the palms of his hands over his eyes. “Go on then. What do you think happened?”

“Car crash,” Sherlock says promptly, and at John’s raised eyebrow, carries on, “It psychosomatic, at least partly – your limp’s bad when you walk, but you don’t ask for a chair much – which says the circumstances surrounding the injury were traumatic. You haven’t been raised around much magic, probably because your brother’s a squib, and your parents didn’t want to upset him, so most likely something muggle which caused the injury. From what I understand, if you were hit by a train or some other form of muggle transport, it’s unlikely you would have survived. So, car crash.”

“Very good,” John says, impressed. “Except, that my brother’s a girl.”

“Damn it. Harry’s short for Harriet?”

John nods. “Harry’s short for Harriet.”

*****

“I got kidnapped earlier,” John announces as he sits down at his and Sherlock’s usual table in the library.

_Oh, Mycroft,_ Sherlock thinks, smiling slightly. “Did you?” He says to John, and John raises his eyebrow at Sherlock’s tone of voice, which if John wasn’t mistaken, sounded almost _pleasant._ “By whom?”

“By our resident Head Boy, actually,” John sounds slightly confused, and Sherlock doesn’t blame him, “Why, exactly, did he kidnap me?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” Sherlock looks over at John as though something has only just occurred to him, “Did he offer you money to spy on me? Because he didn’t need to do that. His lackeys do it well enough. Did you take the money?”

Sherlock looks at John with disdain when John tells him that yes, Mycroft had offered, and no, he hadn’t taken the money. “Pity. We could have split it. Do think it through next time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John splutters, “Yes, _next time_ I’m kidnapped and offered money in exchange for information on you, I shall certainly take it.”

He looks slightly offended when Sherlock mutters a quiet “Make sure that you do.” But Sherlock dismisses it and carries on, “What else did he want?”

“I, ermm... kind of had the feeling that he was checking that I was good enough for you,” John says uncomfortably, “Umm.. why would he do that?”

“Do you _know_ the Head Boy’s last name, John?” Sherlock asks, and John predictably shakes his head, “I thought not. It’s Holmes,”

“Holmes- hang on. You’re brothers? How the hell didn’t I know that?”

“Because you’re stupid. Oh, I’ve told you before, everyone is. There’s no need to look like I just killed your puppy!”

“I don’t have a puppy, Sherlock.” John says quietly, and snickers when Sherlock says _it’s an expression!_ “I will honestly never understand you Holmes’. You’re all bloody maniacs.”

*****

_John,_

_Are you sure that you want to spend Christmas with your family? Can you not find it in your heart to come back to Hogwarts early?_

_It really is awfully boring without you here. No one else quite understands me, apart from Mycroft, but he’s angry at me because I told mummy that he got a girlfriend, and I do so miss being flattered by your regular outbursts of praise aimed in my direction._

_SH_

**Sherlock,**

**Yes, I’m sure I want to spend Christmas at home. I know you don’t really understand, seeing as it’s feelings and all, but families tend to celebrate holidays together. I’m actually quite enjoying being out of the castle, if I’m entirely honest. It’s much warmer in my house.**

**I can imagine it is. I just bring entertainment to everything ;) maybe you shouldn’t be so horrible to him, after all, he is your brother. Shut up, you know I don’t do it on purpose.**

**John.**

**Ps. Really? Signing with your initials? I can assure you, I would have known it was you even if you hadn’t signed the letter at all; no one else can write with quite that amount of arrogance.**

**Pps. Do you want anything from the muggle world whilst I’m here?**

_John,_

_The castle is perfectly lovely this time of year. You’re even stupider than I thought if you would prefer to be in a muggle house, although I suppose it will give you a chance to catch up on that ridiculous TV programme you like. What is it called?_

_What the hell is ‘;)’ supposed to mean? And I’m not horrible to Mycroft. Even if I was, it would be okay, because as you pointed out, he’s my brother. I’m allowed to be horrible to him. It’s not like you’re nice to Harry all the time, is it?_

_Of course I know the praise is involuntary; it makes it that much better._

_Yes, signing with my initials. Problem? Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you would have. It’s not arrogance; it’s self assurance. And since you’re asking, could you get me some cigarettes please? The wizard ones aren’t as strong, and Mycroft is currently refusing to let me out to buy any. He thinks I’ll get in trouble, I think._

_SH_

**Sherlock,**

**I’m not contesting that the castle’s lovely, I’m just saying, it’s nice to be home. Stop calling me stupid, and yes, yes it will, although I don’t know which TV show you’re referring to specifically.**

**Sorry, sorry, muggle thing. It’s a winky face, you know, “;)”? It was meant to show I was joking, but never mind. No, I’m not always nice to Harry, but in my defence, it’s because she’s jealous that I can actually do magic. You and Mycroft just enjoy opposing one another.**

**Yeah, yeah, I don’t need to hear about how I make your ego larger than it already is, thank you very much.**

**No, no problem, it just makes you sound obnoxious :p (that, by the way, is a ‘tongue poking out’ face). They’re the same thing, douchebag, and I wouldn’t get you cigarettes, even if I was old enough to purchase them. If you insist on killing yourself via lung cancer, stick to Wizard cigarettes, and though I know you hate it when this happens, Mycroft is right. You would get in trouble.**

**John.**

_John,_

_Haven’t you learned by now? You’ll always be stupid compared to me, but if it’s any consolation, you’re less stupid than Anderson and Donovan. Whichever one you witter on about all the time. Casualty? Something about Doctors, I think._

_I knew what it meant! I was wondering why you were using it. Honestly, muggle emoticons John? Really? It’s neither of your faults that she’s a squib; she should just get over it. That is true, both Mycroft and I enjoy our game._

_Another emoticon? Please stop it. I’m weeping for what the English language is coming to. It’s not; there’s a difference between arrogant and self assured, I promise you. Please? Not even one pack? How old do you have to be to buy them? And John, wizards can’t actually get cancer, so, I’m not really harming anyone by smoking. Mycroft is never right. Ever._

_SH_

_Ps. Have a good Christmas John._

**Sherlock,**

**Can’t write much, we’re going for dinner in a minute.**

**So, in short thank you, for considering me more intelligent than the two people you hate most in the world. It makes me fuzzy inside. Casualty would be the one; you know I want to be a doctor when I’m older, so it makes sense to have some kind of idea of what it will entail.**

**Of course you did. Yes Sherlock, muggle emoticons. I’m aware of the fact that my sister is a squib, as is she and you and Mycroft both enjoy your “arguments”  because you’re both nutcases.**

**Carry on weeping; it’ll be good for you to show some emotion. As if I’m going to trust your judgement.**

**Happy Christmas Sherlock.**

**John.**

**Ps. I tried to get you some cigarettes... I ended up in an argument with the shop keeper. Sorry about that. I got you some nicotine patches though. They might work.**

*****

When John has been at Hogwarts for 6 months, he gets a girlfriend.

Her name is Sarah, and she’s in Gryffindor, like him. She has brown hair, and brown eyes and John thinks she is possibly the loveliest thing he has ever set eyes on.

John first meets Sarah the week after the Christmas holidays end. He decides that as nice as Sherlock was, he really does need some friends other than the youngest Holmes and joins a study group of people aspiring to be doctors. Sarah is the person in charge and welcome John with open arms.

When John meets Sherlock in the library after the meeting has finished, Sherlock accuses John of being smitten. John blushes and refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

After a month of becoming a blushing, stammering fool whenever he’s around Sarah, John finally, _finally_ plucks up the courage to ask her on a date. She (thankfully) agrees, and John can’t stop his smile for the rest of the evening, hoping that the next Hogsmeade weekend will be sooner rather than later.

~

Sarah and John’s date is going fine, in John’s opinion, until Sherlock turns up.

They’re sitting in the Hog’s Head, which is admittedly different to what John expected when Sherlock had suggested it. The tables are dusty, and the air is stuffy and old and when they’d walked it, John was slightly worried at what Sarah’s reaction to the place would be.

His worries were abated, though, when she smiled at him, warm and comforting, and took his hand in hers. Their hands are still linked, resting on the table top and John is running his thumb over Sarah’s wrists when he suddenly gets an image of Sherlock’s ridiculously delicate wrist and starts wondering whether he’d be able to feel Sherlock’s heart beat if he pressed his thumb to Sherlock’s pulse point, or even his lips.

“ –John?” Sarah’s question draws John out of his reverie, and shifts uncomfortably at the fact that he was daydreaming about his best friend whilst on a date.

“Sorry,” He says, “I was just distracted. Thinking.”

“There’s something that doesn’t happen often,” Sherlock is suddenly standing next to their table, and John groans internally because what, is the man summoned when people think about him or something? Sherlock nods at Sarah. “You should probably take advantage of it whilst you can. Sherlock Holmes, it’s a delight to meet you.”

John mourns the loss of the warm on Sarah’s hand in his as Sarah disentangles her and John’s fingers, and cautiously shakes the hand that Sherlock has extended and mutters a polite “Same to you, I’m sure,”

“Wonderful. Now that introductions are over, do you mind if I join you? Everyone else is dreadfully boring,” Sherlock doesn’t wait for an answer, just sits down in the spare chair next to John, who barely has time to mouth “I’m sorry,” in Sarah’s direction before Sherlock is engaging him in conversation.

~

Sherlock doesn’t like Sarah. His dislike of her is entirely irrational; he has studied her quite extensively, and he cannot find any fundamental faults with her. She isn’t as stupid as most people. She treats him like a human being, which not many people beside John and Mycroft do.

As such, Sherlock doesn’t understand why his stomach clenches every time John talks about her, can’t comprehend why seeing her sends a hot surge of anger pulsing through him and most definitely does not know why sometimes, when he sees John and Sarah sitting by the lake, holding hands and talking with their heads bent together, he finds it difficult to breath for the sharp pain in his chest.

Sherlock doesn’t like not knowing; it is a well-known fact that if there is something Sherlock doesn’t know the answer for, he will research it and research it until he knows the necessary information, and then some, so his hatred for this one girl – and yes, he has concluded that it is an emotion as strong as hatred – both perplexes and angers him in equal measure.

*****

John is knocking on the door to the Ravenclaw Common Room for 10 minutes before Lestrade opens it.

“Sorry,” He says, looking sheepish, “It’s just... Sherlock’s bored.”

John’s eyes widen, “Oh shit,” he says, because a bored Sherlock is _never_ a good thing. “What’s he doing this time?”

“Being quite vicious to the third years,” Lestrade says, and John is suddenly quite grateful that despite what he says, Sherlock does have more than one friend. “He, ermm.. he’s glued some of them to the wall.” He looks frightened, and John doesn’t blame him.

“Right, okay, thank you,” John says, and rushes through the common room, up the stairs to the dormitory. “Sherlock,” he calls, and then stops when he enters the third year’s dorm room. There are two students glued to the wall – _I hope to fucking god it’s not with a permanent sticking charm,_ John thinks – and the rest of the room is a mess; holes in the bed curtains and burns on the wall.

“Sherlock! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock looks up from his position on one of the beds and pouts at John, “I’m bored!” He whines and John fights the urge to throttle Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I honestly don’t give a flying fuck whether you’re bored or not. You can’t go around _sticking thirteen year olds to the wall._ Now let them down – gently! – and fix this bloody room.” Rationally, John is aware that he’s being slightly unfair to Sherlock, and whilst what he’s doing _is_ stupid and warrants a good talking to, many people accept, or at least acknowledge, that when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, you cannot expect him to be ordinary in anything, especially how you cope with boredom. However, John is tired because he stayed up late last night attempting to finish his potions homework and him and Sarah aren’t working out very well because Sherlock interrupts every bloody date they try to go on and he is exasperated to the point of death of dealing with Sherlock and his bloody moods, so Sherlock will just have to deal with the fact that John is pissed at him.

“Spoilsport,” Sherlock grumbles under his breath, but he complies anyway, unsticking the boys from the wall and repairing the damage to the room. “Come along John. We’re going to my room. I sense we have things to discuss.” Ears burning, John follows Sherlock out of the room, ignoring the whispers behind them about exactly what he and Sherlock would be getting up to in the dorm.

~

The second the door closes behind them John rounds on Sherlock, determined to find out what the bloody fucking hell he thought he was doing in the dorm.

“What the bloody hell is your problem?” He says, aware that whilst his anger and irritation is aimed at Sherlock, it isn’t for this particular incident, although he would like to know why Sherlock considers using people as wall decorations socially acceptable “You cannot just go around, sticking people to walls, and blowing rooms to pieces! Why do you not understand that?”

“I understand it perfectly John, but they’re silly social constructs that I _refuse_ to abide to. I don’t see what’s so wrong with that.”

“You don’t see... You honestly don’t see what’s wrong with sticking people to walls?” John is honestly flabbergasted that Sherlock genuinely doesn’t see what’s wrong with _sticking people to fucking walls._ “Do you know, I don’t understand you sometimes Sherlock. I’m going to see Sarah. Maybe when I get back you’ll be more prepared to act like and actual human being.”

*****

The corner of the library John and Sherlock currently occupy is deserted apart from the two of them when Molly shows up for their weekly study sessions (Molly’s a herbology whizz)

Molly Hooper is the year below Sherlock and John, and a Hufflepuff. She is clever, and loyal and brave. She also, has a very large, very obvious crush on Sherlock, and John can’t help but feel sorry for Molly because one thing which has become inordinately clear in the time he has spent as Sherlock’s only friend is that Sherlock does not now, and hasn’t ever, has any inclination to partake in any kind of relationship.

Molly is clearly smitten with Sherlock – is worse than John was when he first met Sarah – so it is a surprise when, this particular Thursday evening, she turns up at the library with a boy in tow.

Molly introduces the boy as Jim. Jim is tall and handsome; his dark brown hair falls in front of his eyes and he’s almost as skinny as Sherlock. When Jim shakes hands with Sherlock, his hand lingers in Sherlock’s longer than John feels is strictly necessary, and he feels a small spark of jealousy at the fact that _Jim is touching Sherlock,_ but he shakes himself out of it in time to return Jim’s handshake.

“You don’t mind if Jim tags along do you?” Molly asks, and John notices that the question is mainly aimed at Sherlock. When no one actively protests the addition to their study group Molly smiles happily, and Jim pulls out a chair for her, making her giggle and blush. As Jim straightens up from pushing Molly’s chair in, his bag catches on the edge of the table and he knocks over a pile of Sherlock’s text books.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, and John shoots him a warning look, telling him to behave.

Jim bends over to pick up the books, mumbling “Sorry, I’m sorry,” as he does so, and John has to turn away because is it really necessary to have one’s underwear showing so far above their waistband? “Molly, I think I’m gonna run,” Jim says apologetically, kissing her on the cheek before walking out of the aisle.

“Oh... okay,” Molly calls after him.

“It’s probably best you break it off with him now,” Sherlock says, and John wants to bury his head in his hands because _here it comes._

“What? Why would I do that?”

“Because your boyfriend tried to hit on me, obviously. Before you both ask, first of all, his _hair._ I’m all for a bit of personal grooming, but the amount of gel in his hair is a clear indication.”

“I wear gel in my hair!” John protests, but Sherlock just keeps speaking.

“Secondly, the underwear. Fashionable brand, lots of it showing about the waistband of his trousers,”

“It’s fashionable to do that nowadays!” Molly shrieks, looking close to tears, but Sherlock ignores this and throws out the kicker.

“If that isn’t enough to convince you, there’s also the fact that he slipped a note into one of my books when he picked them up for me, which quite clearly outlines his interest in me,” Sherlock pulls out said slip of paper, a smug expression his face, but Molly doesn’t even look at the parchment, instead choosing to burst into tears and run away, wailing about how horrible Sherlock is.

“That wasn’t very nice you know,” John says as he read over Jim’s note, _Slytherin Common Room. Password’s astucia. You know where to find me ;),_ “Hey look. Jim uses emoticons!”

*****

John would like to be able to blame his slowness on the fact that he’d been drugged with motherfucking _chloroform_ , and maybe he can, because at first, when he struggles up through his drug induced haze and see’s the room around him, his first thought is genuinely that Mycroft needs to get his fucking priorities straight. It should be obvious to John straight away that this time his Kidnapper is not an egomaniacal elder Holmes, because sure, Mycroft has quite a flair for the dramatic, but John is sure – and desperately hopes – that he doesn’t stoop as low as to ambush them in deserted hallways and then drug them into cooperating.

Plus, John isn’t afraid of Mycroft, and would go with him if he just asked John like a _normal person._

So yes, it isn’t until John feels the cool metal of a gun against his temple that he really starts to panic.

“Now now,” A voice behind him says – John assumes the one holding the gun – and John is _sure_ he knows the owner of the voice, has heard it _somewhere_ before, but his panic fuddled brain can’t quite place it. “There’s no need to panic,”

John may be tied to a chair, but he’s not a Gryffindor for nothing, and bravely – or maybe stupidly – he spits out, “Yes, that makes perfect sense. I’ll really stop panicking because the madman who _kidnapped me_ and tied me to a fucking _chair_ tells me to.”

He shivers as the butt of the gun is drawn teasingly down his jaw and before coming to rest on the underside of his chin, a mocking parody of a caress. “I’m not going to hurt you, John. No. Because _you_ are going to get me the person I want,”

“Who is it you want?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the voice says, and all of a sudden John knows with perfect clarity who the voice belongs to, who his attacker is. The barrel of the gun tilts John’s chin upwards and before who knows it, John is locking eyes with Jim Moriarty.

~

Sherlock Holmes, is scared. Being scared is not something that Sherlock is accustomed to; previously to meeting John he’d been a firm believer that emotions were simply figments of the imagination, easily ignored. Since then, he has begun to doubt his previous assumptions.

The fear holds his insides in a tight, icy grip, and Sherlock feels as though he can’t breathe properly, although that might be to do with the fact that he’s just run the entire length of the castle after receiving a letter from one of the school owls.

_I’ve got John. Be in the Room of Requirement within the next fifteen minutes if you’d like to see him alive again._ The note read. __

When Sherlock reaches the room the door is open, and he steps inside cautiously, not entirely sure what he’s going to find. The scene he steps into, whilst bad, it not as bad as Sherlock had hoped; John is tied from a chair, but aside from looking slightly woozy, seems unharmed.

He has just started untying the bonds binding John’s legs to chair when a voice sounds behind John.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” It advises, “I’ve got a gun, and you may be a whiz at duelling, but I don’t think you’ll be quite so efficient with stopping bullets,”

“Jim,” Sherlock says, looking up and coming face-to-face with Molly’s boyfriend. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’m sure. Stand up, Sherlock, and step away from John, otherwise I’m afraid, I’m going to have to put a bullet through his pretty little head.” Sherlock does as Jim says, panic gripping him at the thought of any harm coming to John. “Well done. It seems you really do like him.”

“Of course I like him. He’s my friend.”

Jim smiles at Sherlock, shaking his head mockingly, “Oh but he’s so much more than that, isn’t he? Ordinary, plain John, who makes our resident high-functioning sociopath capable of _feelings._ At first, when I saw how close you two had become, I was confused. What would a genius like you possibly want with him?” he rests his free hand on John’s neck, stroking slightly, and Sherlock fights the urge to shoot a stunning spell at Jim for touching _his_ John. “I understand now. He really is quite adorable. Quite the fan.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asks impatiently, because the sooner John is out of the chair, the better, in his opinion.

“Tsk. Impatient, aren’t we?” Jim sounds amused, and John wonders, kidnapping aside, whether he’s mentally sane. “What do I want? Well. I did want you, Sherlock. I can see now, that’s not going to happen. You do seem to be quite enamoured with John, and I doubt anything I say will change your mind.”

John is sure he can’t have heard properly, “You knocked me out and kidnapped me, because you want Sherlock to be your boyfriend? COULD YOU NOT JUST HAVE ASKED HIM?” John ignores the feeling like a kick in the stomach at the idea of Sherlock dating Jim, and the flutter in his stomach at the idea that Sherlock is interested in him, because, in case anyone actually cared, he wasn’t gay, despite the fact that most of his year thought Sherlock and him were a couple. “What is _wrong_ with you people?”

“Nothing is wrong with _me,_ John,” Sherlock says, sounding affronted. “Our friend Moriarty here, I’m not so sure about.” He turns to John, “Do you honestly expect us to let you walk away from here, after you’ve drugged John, kidnapped John _and_ threatened him with a gun?”

“Umm....” Jim thinks for a moment, before stepping away from John and putting the gun in his back pocket, alongside his wand. “Yes. Yes I do.”

“Oh, really? And why’s that?”

“Because,” Jim says, pulling out his wand, “You’re not going to be able to stop me. _Stupefy._ ”

Sherlock isn’t able to jump out of the way of the spell in time, and crumples to the floor in a burst of red light. John struggles against his bonds, attempting to get to Sherlock, and by the time he stops trying to wriggle free, Jim has left the room.

~

When Sherlock wakes up, the first thing he does is lunge towards John and attempt to undo the ropes around his arms and legs. It isn’t until John reminds him with a shaky “Wand, Sherlock,” that Sherlock remembers his magic, and neatly slices through the knots, helping John free in seconds.

He helps John to stand, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and supporting him when his legs give out. “You’re hugging me,” John points out in a whisper, as though speaking louder might break the tension between him and Sherlock. Sherlock blushes at the statement and John watches, transfixed, as the flush bleeds along Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock inhales sharply when John runs his fingers along the bone, feeling the heated skin beneath, before he says softly, “Was he right? That you’re _enamoured_ with me?”

Sherlock nose turns up slightly at the term ‘enamoured’ but he nods jerkily anyway. John laughs quietly before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, lightly at first, but more insistently as Sherlock starts to respond, tilting his head to fit his mouth alongside John’s and parting his lips slightly. The kiss is surprisingly sweet, and as Sherlock manoeuvres them both so that he can push John up against the wall, John thinks that maybe everyone was right when they said he and Sherlock were a couple, and it had just taken them a bit longer than others to realise it.


End file.
